


Positively Plump

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chubby Kink, Chubby Mycroft Holmes, M/M, Medical Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22886839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Maybe you have put on a little weight, Mr Holmes."Mycroft Holmes feels that he may have gained just a little weight. Dr Watson will see him now.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 143
Collections: Anonymous





	Positively Plump

It had begun innocently enough.

A file dropped around to his brother's rooms on an afternoon when Sherlock had deigned to step out of the flat. An offer made by John Watson of tea and cake if he cared to wait. A pleasant enough half hour passed.

There had always been food offered to him at Baker Street whenever he called after that.

On the third or fourth occasion, he had tried to demur, with one eye on his waistline, saying that he really _oughtn't_ to indulge. _"Rot_ ," said John. _"A little indulgence does you good. Besides,"_ he had added with a wink. _"I rather like a man to have a little padding."_

He had flushed and crossed his legs.

But he had continued to visit Baker Street.

He knew himself not to be above attraction, above lust, above… _urges_. He was surprised to learn that those urges could be brought on by an army doctor wrapped up in a woolly jumper.

He began to carve out room in his diet for his "little indulgences", as the doctor had called them.

A piece of gateaux here.

A serving of buttery mashed potato there.

His clothes grew a little more snug.

John's eyes roamed knowingly over his softening angles, and he nodded his head professionally, approvingly. A mixture of hot shame and embarrassed desire flooded through him.

He thought about what it would be like to grow bigger.

He replaced his morning black coffee and banana with cream-sweetened porridge. His lunchtime salads with pasta. His evening soup with rich, filling portions of lasagne, potatoes, risottos, pizza, pot pies. His evening treadmill session with dessert.

His once flat stomach rounded out, a small lip of fat pushing out against his waistcoats.

The first time he had put in an appearance at Baker Street with it on display, there had been tea and cake as usual and, after the tea had been poured, John Watson had stepped right into his personal space and patted his tummy with a casual, proprietary air.

The touch had burned through layers of waistcoat, shirt, undershirt, and skin, and he had needed to excuse himself to the upstairs bathroom to keep from coming in his trousers like a schoolboy.

Packages of new suits began to arrive at intervals from his Saville Row tailor. Anthea, he presumed.

*

These long months of feeding and flirtation and frustration had brought them to that evening, in the living room of Baker Street.

He had met John at New Scotland Yard the previous afternoon.

A period of some weeks since they had last seen one another – the elections in South East Asia had taken up much of his time – and even in his years of healthy eating he had always had a tendency towards snacking his way through international crises.

John had taken a long look over his figure, and he had fought not to squirm under the gaze.

They had taken their leave without a word, but barely five minutes later a text message had arrived to his mobile phone. A summons to Baker Street, and an assurance that his brother would be in Belarus.

*

"You feel that you've gained a little weight, you say?" asked John Watson. He wore a lab coat, and had a stethoscope around his neck, and was poring over a thick file.

"Yes."

"And when was the last time you were weighed?"

"I was ten stone and seven pounds in February."

"I see," said John, eyes fixed on his papers, professionally disinterested. "A little underweight for your height, if anything. I can't imagine a little weight gain will have done you much harm, but all the same I'm happy to look you over."

"Please, Dr Watson," he said eagerly, and lied: "I'm sure it really is just a little."

The doctor put down his papers on the table, and looked up at his patient.

He was fully dressed, wearing a closely fitting shirt and a suit that had fit him _before_ the elections in South East Asia. The doctor walked around him, frowning. His eyes lingered on the strain on his buttons, on the curve that spilled out between waistcoat and trousers, at the areas where his trousers clung to his bottom and thighs.

"If you could remove your clothes, please, Mr Holmes."

He obeyed quickly, removing jacket and waistcoat as John watched. His middle pushed out against his shirt. He reached first for his trouser button, and cursed softly as he struggled to undo it, cutting tight as it was into his middle and making him feel squeezed and breathless.

He fought uselessly with it for a minute, until Dr Watson stepped forward. "You seem to need some help, Mr Holmes."

"Yes, Doctor."

Dr Watson fumbled with his button, one hand brushing – an accident, he was sure – against his flies. A brief further struggle, and it popped open. His tummy surged forward against the doctor's warm hands, and Mycroft flushed in humiliation. The doctor's fingers undid the zip before he stepped back to watch him wriggle out of the trousers. He tsked. "Well, maybe you have put on a little weight, Mr Holmes. You've certainly grown too plump for these clothes." He added, almost as an afterthought: "And your shirt, too, please."

His shirt was removed more easily, with only a little effort on the buttons that stretched over the roundest part of his stomach.

He curled out of it, watching as the doctor's eyes widened, pupils dilating.

"Oh, my," said Dr Watson.

He stood, stripped to his underwear, pink under the doctor's gaze, and caught sight of himself in the mirror over the fireplace. The doctor ran his hands down Mycroft's side, assessing. His pert, swollen little tits, perched atop a roll of fat and topped with dark, puffy nipples that had begun to make Mycroft gasp when his shirt brushed against them, were cupped in the doctor's palms. He used his thumb and index finger to pinch and then sooth, stroking the tips. Mycroft whined.

"I see you've got very sensitive breasts, Mr Holmes," said Dr Watson. "It's a common side effect, when they grow a little larger like this."

Mycroft made a noise that might have been agreement, and thrust his tits forward involuntarily.

Dr Watson's palm moved down, stroking the roundness of his generous waist where it had been cut in half by his boxers and plopped over the top of his waistband. He gave it an experimental heft. "I'm beginning to suspect you may have put on more than a _little_ weight, Mr Holmes," he said, speculatively. "You do seem to have grown awfully soft."

"I'm sure not, Doctor," he said.

"Well, get your underwear off and we'll find out."

Mycroft stripped out of his boxers, aware of his soft bits jiggling with every movement, Dr Watson reached for a measuring tape.

The tape slipped, cool and tight, around his waist.

Dr Watson tutted.

"Now, now, Mr Holmes. There's no point in sucking it in."

He flushed, and released his core. His belly surged forward, rounder than ever, bulging over the tape. Dr Watson removed it, and started again. His fingers rested on the underside of Mycroft's tummy as he studied the number.

"42 inches," he said with a frown.

Mycroft was gratified to see Dr Watson twitch in his jeans beneath his white coat as he noted down the number.

He removed the measuring tape.

"Right," he said. "Now, let's get you weighed." He patted Mycroft's bare bottom. "Up on the scale, please, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft obediently stepped up, almost dizzy with arousal. The scale whirred, and he looked down, but all he could see was tits and tummy.

"Sixteen stone and four pounds," Dr Watson announced. "You haven't put on a _little_ weight, Mr Holmes. You're positively plump."

He prodded Mycroft's soft fat.

"You’ve become such a greedy, soft, spoiled creature," he said with a sigh. "I ought to put you on a diet, Mr Holmes, and I think I'd really better see you more regularly to check on your progress."

"Oh, do you really think so, Dr Watson?"

"Oh, yes, Mr Holmes, and I believe you'll only grow larger." John glanced up at Mycroft, a smirk on his face almost wicked. "Have a seat, Mycroft," he said, and patted his tummy. "Let me see what I have in the fridge to get you started."


End file.
